...Luck was on his side this evening as he made it to the door the candle sat in front of. A wooden sign creaked on its hinges above him and, had he been one to look, he would have noticed the freshly painted words The Siren’s Inn. Of course, he was not such a man and instead took it upon himself to blatantly ignore the sign and rap his knuckles across the oak. Impatiently he stood, listening intently to the scraping of chairs, clicking of shoes, and the general murmur of at least a dozen voices. A short sigh was given and he knocked again, this time a bit more loudly.

“Quiet will yeh?” a voice growled from the other side of the door. Ezala once more frowned, his foot tapping on the stone step he stood upon. The sound of a heavy bolt being thrown back was heard next and without warning the door swung inward, light and warmth illuminating the man. Blinking a few times to let his eyes adjust, he stepped in without invitation. The night was already waning; there was little room for formalities.

He stood amongst the ragged group, an imposing figure. Twin ruby eyes stared out from a strong face; sharp cheekbones and a square jaw accentuating them. The man’s hair had been tied back with a ribbon of silk, the ends of the black locks tucked beneath an oilskin cloak. His clothing was immaculate; though the opal the size of the man’s thumb nestled against the lace as his throat drew attention away from the rest of his wears.  He had paid close attention to leave all other finery at home but the opal, he was often heard murmuring, he could not live without. The gentleman’s sharp gaze turned on the group and he gave a surprisingly gentle smile. “I do apologize for my time. It seems as though I am late.” he murmured, his tone mockingly sincere.

“I am sure there is a good enough reason for it. Perhaps the Watchmen thought to have spied you?” one of them asked. A shake of the man’s head was his answer. Time had, apparently, just slipped by him...